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i find it unfortunate that i need to use the kids’ nap time today to fold the four clean loads of laundry that have been waiting for two days to be folded and put away, especially since all i really want to do is sit here with the wee one, inhaling the sweet scent of newborn and making silly faces for him to smile at.
Shall we make this a regular feature?
Bad News: 1) I woke up yesterday morning with no voice. Turns out it’s hard to adequately care for my children without being able to yell across the park or yard for them when necessary. (For example, when Oliver is trying to run out in the street. You get the picture.)
2) Moments after my last post, i went to the kitchen to refill my water glass. As soon as i sat down again, i knocked the entire thing over onto my sweet little MacBook, apparently ruining my favorite piece of technology. If i were a swearing woman, i would have been cussin’. Instead, i laugh at unfortunate events, so i was laughing, because, well, what are you gonna do?
Good News: 1) MacBook is still under warranty. And 2) Asher rolled over from belly to back this morning, crazy little kid. Also, 3) i’m sitting here (at Brian’s computer) at PCJ all by myself, and savoring the moment. Oh, and 4) i love my new shorter hair– the weight has indeed been lifted. The good news wins!
Okay, neither of these are news at all, so I apologize for the misleading title. But here they are, anyhow. Bad news first, of course:
Bad news: Hair stylist home with sick child, haircut rescheduled to Thursday. I feel like a sheepdog. Or maybe more like a sheep. Either way, i’m feeling shaggy and unkempt, and so looking forward to not feeling this way anymore! (Please intervene if you see me with a sharp object and a crazed look, because i might be considering a home haircut. And if you remember what happened last time I cut someone’s hair… well, it wasn’t good.)
Good news: If you enjoy a good laugh (and i sure hope you do,) check out this blog. Especially if you get a kick out of things like poor spelling and grammar. Hopefully this will not be limited to my mom and sisters, since we’ve already shared the goodness of Cake Wrecks. Though considering the abundance of reader comments and the humor award nomination, maybe it’s not just for word nerds– Enjoy!
I’m getting my hair cut Monday. This always warrants much excitement; i think the greatest part is the feeling of having a weight lifted. I am forever waiting until i feel like i’m wearing a mop to make an appointment, so by the morning of the appointed day, i’m feeling claustrophobic and about ready to take my lousy kitchen shears to the mess just to get rid of it. Then there’s the thrill of potentially re-inventing myself. Though i always look pretty much the same, i hold a secret hope that i may walk out with some sort fabulous sleek ‘do and suddenly look completely put-together and a little glamorous. You know that feeling, that hope? It’s kind of fun.
Sweet sister Steph and i were reminiscing the other day of reading our old elementary-school journals found in Mom and Dad’s garage not long ago. These were the booklets made from lined paper with a construction-paper binding, which was decorated in the author’s crayon drawings. First thing each morning in school, we had free-writing time. Oh, i loved Journal time– a whole fifteen minutes to fill those lines with whatever filled my thoughts. Adorably innocent themes dominate the pages; I was always very concerned with our cat and her kittens, there were recounts of the past night’s dinner or events or dreams.
The most embarassing of the recurring topics was my feet. It seems that year (it was 2nd grade, i think) i must have hit a growth spurt, outgrowing successive pairs of shoes with unprecedented speed. I bemoaned this irritating fact to my journal, not sparing any detail of the blisters that accompanied, the ingrown toenail i’d suffered as a result, and certainly not neglecting the smell of my feet and shoes. Oh, the drama i poured into those journal entries!
I wondered, as i read back over those sweet journals, if that was an assignment given to provide the teacher with a little comic relief at grading time. And it amazes me how little i have changed in the twenty years elapsed since those days.
I’d lost track of the time, but I was surprised to feel the pressure signaling that it was time for Asher to be born. With the previous births, I’d experienced textbook sensations of Transition— the phase right before the baby is born—uncontrollable shaking, exhaustion, feelings of confusion and discouragement. This time, I was waiting for all of those as a sign that it would soon be time to deliver, but to my surprise simply noticed that I felt the need to push. Immediately. “Um, I think I’m ready to push,” I told Brian. Someone had pressed the button to call the nurse, because when it’s time, it’s really really time. Oh, and having the Dr. there for the delivery would be optimal.
The pressure and pain mounted to a fever pitch by this time, as with each contraction Brian would coach, “Focus! Breathe! Do not push!” But I have to! It hurts– it really hurts! I would insist breathlessly, using what felt like the strength of my entire body to resist that urge. The nurse rushed in, and upon checking confirmed “Oh! The baby is right there.” She joined Brian’s efforts saying “Let’s wait for the doctor to get here. Remember, you’re still breathing for him too.” I could barely maintain a steady pattern of breathing and tried to focus on blowing my breath toward my forehead, as our childbirth class instructor had taught, to diffuse the intense desire to just get the baby out.
I was in a haze, lost to the passing of time and engulfed in the process of not giving birth, an endeavor that felt similar to slamming on brakes while driving 80 m.p.h., calling out to Jesus for help and writhing with the intense pressure. There were moments of panic, and Brian would take my face to his, and remind me to focus, to breathe. Stephanie sent a quick text to Court at this point, saying “He’s almost here!” The time on that message was 5:58 pm.
Sarah had not anticipated witnessing the actual birth, but when things kicked into gear it really got moving. She and Steph stood by the couch for a safe and non-scary view, having moved out of the way when the nurse, the doctor, the baby nurse, the NICU team and another nurse who I think had been passing in the hall and was roped into helping, had burst into the room. I was vaguely aware of the nursing teams setting up shop with the necessary baby paraphernalia, as the L&D nurses broke down the bed for delivery with lightening speed. My doctor got her gloves on, and we have a priceless picture of her face (thanks, Steph!) as she took her stool at the foot of the bed, and saw that, oh yes, the baby is here.
“Go ahead and push when you’re ready,” she said. And with those words, some blessed relief: I simply allowed him to finally make his way into the world, and Asher was born. His arrival time: 6:03 pm. I yelled with joy and relief; people were laughing and crying and hollering, and Asher was whisked away by the NICU team to make sure he was clear and hadn’t aspirated any of the tainted fluid.
Everyone else in the room got to go over and watch him spread out under the baby warmer, to be cleaned up and checked out. I was stuck being cleaned up, stitched up, and shaking violently (the doctor told me this is due to the surge of adrenaline and loss of fluids). “Oh, he’s beautiful!” they said. He measured 8 pounds, 5 ounces, and 20.25 inches. At last, nearly an hour after his birth, I got to hold him. He was beautiful and wide-awake and just perfect. We stared at each other, a little tired but content, and I was just so thrilled to finally meet Asher.
I warned you it was a long one.
Around 1:30 mom and Stephanie arrived. The hospital room was so spacious, and the pace of the process so chill, I’d asked them if they’d like to come labor with us. There we sat, chatting and watching baby shows on TLC (to remind me of what all the pain was going to eventually bring me! (a baby!)), and observing Asher’s heart rate and my contractions on the monitors.
At 3:00, my doctor returned. I’d not made much progress (had been dilated to 4 upon arrival and was now at 5), so she went on to break my water. “Okay,” she told us, “your baby has had his first bowel movement already. It will probably not affect him, but we will have some NICU staff on hand at delivery to make sure he is fine.” This would have been a little frightening, I think if it had happened at home. And since that can be an indication of fetal distress, I was glad to be in the hospital with Asher well on his way to meet us. If we’d not been there for the induction, I would not have thought it was time to go to the hospital yet; contractions were picking up intensity and frequency, but still around 20 minutes apart, not the prescribed “3-5 minutes apart for an hour or more,” that I was told to wait for before heading into L&D.
At 3:30, Sarah came in to visit. She’ll be giving birth in a few short months, so I’d invited her to stop by if she wanted to see what a non-TV version of labor is like (disproving the movie-version myths that have every laboring woman screaming her lungs out and cursing her husband for getting her into this mess.) There was still some downtime between the pain, and it was nice to have everyone around. A little after 4, my nurse informed us she was just waiting on the second dose to arrive from the pharmacy, and would get that started as soon as she could.
Brian sat on the couch reading, probably feeling like he was stuck in a henhouse as we talked. I’d sit back during each contraction, listening to the conversation around and breathing sloooowly as someone would get a quiet, watching the monitor, and then afterward we would discuss the intensity and duration, “Oh yeah, that was a big one, wasn’t it! All the way off the monitor, and with a long plateau!” I’d outlawed rating the pain until it had passed. I guess discussing them after the fact like that provided me with a sense of encouragement that I’d endured just a bit more, then a bit more.
I was checked again around 4:30, and seeing I’d progressed to “about 6 or 7,” the doctor mentioned starting me on “just a whiff” of pitocin to get things moving a bit. When the nurse came in at 5:00 to hook up my IV, things had taken a bit of a turn. “I don’t think I need that pitocin,” I told her. “No,” she agreed, “I don’t think you do.”
She’d seen the monitor readings from her station in the hall, indicating that the contractions had become very regular, and that the most recent were lasting three minutes each. Suddenly the pain switched from feeling like labor pain to feeling like being trapped in a vice-grip: with each contraction, my back ached and I’d yell to Brian “Back! Back!” (a rather abbreviated request for him to press into my lower back to launch a counter-attack against what my body was doing to me,) and dig my head into mom’s shoulder, bracing myself against the pain that enveloped my body. At one point I requested Gatorade, and Brian moved to go get it. “No, not you! You stay here!” It was getting frantic.
I love birth stories. Whatever the details, however it happens, there is always so much mystery in the process of a brand-new little person entering the world. Before I proceed, this one comes with disclaimers: 1) this will be a long one. It will be so long you will have to come back again for the rest, because I can’t seem to write it all at once, or have the patience to keep waiting till I’m done to post it. 2) It will not be graphic, but there is some birth terminology, so if you’re not into that, now’s your chance to get out.
Onward!
So, Tuesday Sept 16th, (a week past the due date), I had a normal Dr. appointment. The Dr. had me see the hospital coordinator to set up an induction date, which we were not able to do because their schedule was full. She also set me up for ultrasound testing to make sure Asher was fine; the appointment was for Weds. morning.
Wednesday morning, Stella and I set out on a “mommy date” to the appointment, and then out for coffee and a muffin. We checked in and were waiting to be called back, when the receptionist called me up to the desk for a phone call. It was the hospital coordinator, calling to say there had been an induction opening and she’d like me to take it — and please report to the hospital as soon as possible!
Though Asher was a week past the day I’d hoped to meet him, I suddenly felt unprepared. As has happened each time I’ve gone into labor, I felt like calling in sick and just going home. Longing for the moment that I meet my baby, but dreading the process that stands between this moment and that one.
Like the previous few days, I’d woken up having contractions. By the time Stella and I returned home from our abbreviated coffee date (she munched merrily on biscotti and chatted while I sat across the table empty-handed and sweaty-palmed), it became clear that I was actually in labor already. We packed and repacked bags and arranged childcare and made it out the door a few times but I kept forgetting just one little thing. It’s fair to say we were not really shooting for the hospital ASAP, but eventually. I wondered to Brian if we shouldn’t just call to cancel, explaining that we’d be in later that day, anyway. Wary of any unnecessary medical procedures, I wanted to let God’s timing take its course rather than make the timetable of the doctor on call. We stopped for a moment in prayer together, and decided to go on in. Once I was checked in, I felt sure it would be clear that since my labor had already started, minimal action would be taken to speed things up.
We checked in. The nurse was sweet as could be, and very supportive of my hopes to not be strapped down with monitors and IVs the whole time. I’d tested positive for a Strep bacteria, which can cause infection for the baby, so she started me on a dose of IV antibiotics. Treatment requires two doses of antibiotics, administered four hours apart. My Dr. had said earlier she would probably break my water to “get things going,” but when she came in to check on my progress, she decided to wait a while. My previous labors had moved pretty quickly after that point, and she wanted me to get my full 2 doses of medication.
She left me to proceed laboring on my own time, and once my dose of medication finished, the nurse unhooked the monitors and IV and set me free to roam the halls. “Just don’t leave,” she warned, though with my hospital gown flapping in the breeze, that was not likely to happen (I was wearing two gowns by that time– one regular and one on backward, like a robe. Just thought i’d clarify that point for you). Brian and I walked the hospital, marveling at how strangely relaxing this “induction” was. Our previous hospital experiences involved arriving with me already in hard labor. This time, except for the contractions, which were still no more frequent than every 20-30 minutes, we were just hanging out in the lovely new labor and delivery room watching TV in total peace and quiet. We returned for the baby’s heart rate to be monitored, and I decided to take a nap. We’d been at the hospital about 2.5 hours.
